


backwards walk

by hysteries



Series: kerosene (tim stoker appreciation week) [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Background Sasha James/Tim Stoker, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Late Night Conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24012508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hysteries/pseuds/hysteries
Summary: It’s pathetic, how fast his neck snaps to look behind him. He knows it’s not her voice. But there’s a chance – maybe her voice has changed, maybe it's different, maybe it's something new – and then he sees Melanie King’s blue-black hair and he's lost.
Relationships: Melanie King & Tim Stoker
Series: kerosene (tim stoker appreciation week) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1730320
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32
Collections: Tim Stoker Appreciation Week





	backwards walk

He used to be good at this. Talking to people. When he and Jon were researchers, they used to make bets about how many colleagues he could chat up and whether or not he could get them out for a pint. Or, really, he made the bets and Jon just nodded along, but he was always happy to collect when the time came. Tim had only failed once. Asking Elias Bouchard to join the researchers for a pint down at the local had ended in a glassy stare and a posh, _I think not_.

(Tim blamed that one in Boss man’s weird intensity more than any fumbles on his part.)

He can pinpoint where it all went wrong, but he doesn’t want to think about it. Hand to God, he’s sick to death of thinking about it. He’s sick of thinking in general – it’s all he does, these days. Sits in an empty flat and thinks. Sits in an office and thinks. Sits next to Martin in silence and thinks. He’s not Jon; he wasn’t built for this.

His body’s rejecting all of it. His muscles aches when he sits at his desk. When he tried to record Hatendi’s statement, his throat closed up so tight he could hardly breathe. And when Melanie came in, his eyes burned – but that loops back to thinking, and he’s not doing that anymore.

He focuses his energy entirely on glass of water in front of him. Looking through it, he watches as shapes around the break room refract and twist. Wasn’t that what she saw, when she met that _thing_? A shape distorted through glass?

He’s not doing this. He’s not thinking about her.

(It hurts, it hurts, in the back of his neck, in his head, in his chest, everywhere. It hurts.)

“Tim?”

It’s pathetic, how fast his neck snaps to look behind him. He knows it’s not her voice (or _its_ ). But there’s an off-chance – maybe her voice has changed, like she has – and then he sees Melanie King’s blue-black hair and something inside of him deflates.

“’Lo.” He can’t force the whole world out. He’s exhausted, he realizes, down to the bone. The best he can offer Melanie is a wave of his cup. That’s friendly, right?

She’s looking at him through narrowed eyes, the piercing in her nose glinting in the dim light. “You’re still here?” She makes no move to get any closer. She’s angry, or at least she looks it. Mouth knotted into a grimace, fists curled under her crossed arms. A searing jealousy hits Tim. To be angry requires a degree of certainty that he doesn’t have anymore. Melanie’s world has heroes, villains, stable forces that can be fought against. Tim’s world has nothing but smoke and mirrors.

“Told you I needed a rest. Fell asleep in document storage — what’s the time?”

She untangles her arms to grab her phone. “Ten.” He doesn’t know Melanie well enough to read the surprise in her face, but he can hear it in her voice. “Shit, it’s ten p.m.?”

“Apparently so.”

She looks up from her phone and directly at him. “I recorded that statement for _five hours_?”

Tim shrugs. Sounds about right. “Welcome to the Magnus Institute, where the laws of physics don’t exist. Actually, come to think of it, most laws don’t exist here.”

“I had dinner plans!”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. Should ask about it, probably. But there’s a slight ringing in his ears that’s been there since he left the recording room. He lets that fills the silence between them instead. Might be something to get checked by a doctor, only Tim can’t be arsed to visit one and even if he did, they’d probably mark it as psychosomatic. He’s not stupid.

Melanie sighs. Loudly. “Are you planning on crashing here all night?”

“Fuck, no.” He looks back down at the water. He meant to get up and go ages ago. He really did. Only his legs are doing that funny thing where they feel unstable under him and the Tube seems a world away. There’s another long pause. Tim used to hate those. Isn’t quite sure when they became comfortable instead.

“Right. Well, I’m headed to Pimlico…”

“Right,” he repeats. It takes another beat to realize what she’s offering. _No,_ he wants to say, but instead what comes out is, “Right. Yeah. Let’s go.”

It’s a blur as they leave the Institute. He’s vaguely aware of swinging a jacket over his shoulders and the light under Elias’ office door. There’s no conversation, no awkward platitudes, no awkward run-ins with colleagues. When they make it out the front door, the cool night air hits him like a slap. He slows slightly to take deep breath in, eyes fluttering closed.

“You alright?” Melanie asks. He breathes in again. “Well I mean, obviously not, but is there anything I can do…?”

“No.” His eyes open and he looks down at her. She’s shorter than he realized. Almost a foot smaller than him. She’s got that cross look back on her face and, in another life, it might’ve made him laugh. In this life, he thinks back to other late nights at the Institute, and remembers being the one to drag Martin and Jon and Sasha to the station. “I’ve been a dick, haven’t I?”

“I was thinking asshole, but yeah, dick works.”

“Fair enough.” He frowns. “And you still decided to walk me home?” It’s almost a joke. A weak effort, but it’s better than nothing.

“Just a formality. Figured I should give office etiquette a shot before throwing it entirely out the window.” Melanie smirks at her own joke.

“I’m flattered,” he answers dryly. There it is – almost a spark. Almost enough to keep the conversation going. But then there’s another pause, and he doesn’t know how to fill it. They’re past the point of asking about each other’s days. Past the point of small-talk, really, and Tim can’t go back to the conversation they were having before. He can’t.

Melanie, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to notice. “You seem to have mellowed out. Naptime help?”

He can’t help himself. He laughs, one short chuckle. It’s the pitch of her tone, petulant and condescending. She sounds like Rosie. “I guess. Haven’t been sleeping much lately.” It’s the exhaustion; he didn’t mean for that to slip out. But he’s being honest. He hasn’t slept much in weeks, not since Sasha – _it_ , since it – cocked its head and looked at him through pitch-black eyes.

To her credit, Melanie doesn’t ask or dole out sympathy. She still has that same burning heat on her face, burrowed in her frown. “That’s no good.”

“No, it’s not.”

Don’t ask about her. Don’t do it. The ringing in his ears will only grow louder if he does – but Sasha _knew_ Melanie. He can’t remember if she liked her, if they got on or not, his head goes all fuzzy when he thinks about the specifics… but she knew Melanie. And Melanie knew her.

No.

Melanie’s been talking while he’s been running scenarios through his head, versions of this conversation where she has an answer for every gap in his life. It’s just fantasy, though. She can’t even tell him about the real Sasha; she tries, and it’s like she’s overcome by the same dizziness that gets him.

Coming out of his haze, all he catches is, “I won’t say another word, promise. But losing someone – I get it.”

“We didn’t lose her.” Another kneejerk answer, just as honest.

“What?” There’s an incredulous laugh this time. “What, are you saying that the _real_ Sasha is actually out there -”

He cuts her off. “She got taken.”

The silence feels full. Heavy. “Taken?” The same incredulity from her laughter seeps into her voice. It’s not unkind.

“Something – I don’t know why, I don’t even think there’s a why, not really – it took her.”

This time, it’s Melanie who doesn’t speak. When he looks down at her, her frown’s knitted itself into a new shape. He doesn’t care if she thinks he’s crazy, or desperate, or whatever. It feels good just to say it to someone who’s listening.

“Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Yeah.” Melanie pauses. “Actually – no, it’s not alright. It makes me really fucking angry, honestly, that she’s gone.”

He laughs, short and sharp. “Join the club.”

Their eyes meet, and after more quiet, = she shakes her head. “No reason to be such a dick to the new kid, though.”

“Right.” She is right, really. When Martin joined the gang, it’d been his idea to lay out the red carpet. He’s just about done the opposite for her. “Sorry.”

“I’m not like, crying over it or anything. ‘S just not how you want to start a new job.”

“Gotcha.” And before he can stop himself: “Did you like her?”

His head goes woozy. Maybe it’s always been woozy. Sasha – it, her, whatever – is shrouded in darkness. She’s there, she’s everywhere, but when he tries to grasp onto her, even her name, she dissipates.

“What?”

“I can’t trust this.” He taps his head. “Me. I’m not working right.” And Jon definitely isn’t either, and maybe Martin too, and any chance he had of trusting either of them is long gone. He doesn’t trust Melanie either. Doesn’t know who sent her here, or why. But she knew Sasha, well enough to know that there was something wrong, and he clings to that like a lifeline.

“She was nice, yeah?” He turns ahead. Can’t look at Melanie while she answers. Doesn’t want to see the expression on her face.

“Oh. Yeah. She was nice.” Her voice picks up. “Chatted my ear off about ghost pubs, promised to take me to one by Bethnal Green. Said you lot were like _Indiana Jones_ , just with more spooks.”

He can’t square that story with the shadow in his head. The Sasha who so coldly told him she and her boyfriend would be taking lunches together from now on. Who suddenly couldn’t remember how to work a mainframe, or whatever it was in those hacker movies. Who grinned at him and Martin, jaw gaping and many-teethed. The ringing in his ears goes louder. It’s wrong, it’s all wrong (it hurts, God it hurts).

“Thanks,” he answers. His teeth are gritted.

She laughs. “And God, she could down a pint like —”

“Stop. Please.”

Melanie seems to sense the change almost instantly. Martin would’ve touched his arm to check if he was okay; Jon would’ve carried on. Melanie gets angry.

“You _asked_ …”

“And I shouldn’t have. It was a mistake.”

He doesn’t want her to say anything else, and he doesn’t want to have to say anything either. All he wants is for the ringing to stop. He wants to remember. But in the newfound quiet, all he hears is _its_ voice, a long drawn-out _yeeees_.

By the time they make it to Pimlico, his jaw is aching. But the strange thing is – he feels it, even with the haze and the ringing. He feels the anger Melanie radiates, rage burrowed deep under his skin. Her words, _lost someone_ , seep into his bones. It’s not nothing. He’s not nothing. _Really fucking angry_ , Melanie said, and he thinks he might be too. What he feels is red-hot and bitter, and he’s electric with it.

“I’m grabbing the bus.” She speaks for the first time in minutes, and in the fluorescent light, she looks softer, somehow. More human. Dark shadows smudge her under-eyes and Tim sees that her roots are growing out. For one, brief instant, Danny’s name is on his tongue. The heat under his skin cools. “You’ll be alright getting home, yeah? No more narcolepsy?”

He nods. “Sure thing, kid.” The old nickname slips out, rusty from misuse. His voice catches on it. “No need to worry.”

“Ha! I’m not worried about you. Just about the poor bloke you’ll end up falling asleep on top of.” Melanie King might be funny, he thinks. And then reckons it’s a bad idea to start thinking like that, because the time for making friends at the Institute is long-passed.

Still, he’s had enough fighting for the night. “Keep safe, alright?”

Her eyebrow goes up again. It's like she doesn't know what to do with the sudden turn to the serious. The fact that he might care. “ _Alright_ , yeah. You too.”

There’s an awkward silence before he turns away. He’s not sure if she’s expecting a thank-you. Definitely not a hug, he knows that for sure. But he’s got nothing to give her, and he’s not sure she’s got anything for him.

 _Like Indiana Jones_ , her words run through his head while the train car shudders underneath him, _But less spooky_. He tries to picture somebody else saying those words. Somebody who looks like a person. Rolling them around in her mouth, laughing once they’re out.

He can’t. Clenches his jaw again.

The heat comes back and swallows him whole.

**Author's Note:**

> made it through day two! tim and melanie are my top two tma characters and MAG86 is one of my favourite episodes, both in terms of statement and character interaction. there's no love lost between the two of them in the show, but they've got lots in common. anger, lost loved ones, fuck elias energy, mlm/wlw solidarity, being the hottest folks in the archives. does this fic cover any of that? not really! but neither tim or melanie are really in the place to befriend each other in season three anyways, and i wanted to capture them as well as i could.
> 
> this is my day two of tim stoker appreciation week. i picked the prompt "day/night," with a little bit of "drinks" in there too. happy monday, everyone!


End file.
